Into the Night
by silverfoxpunk
Summary: Damon deals with the guilt after his angry encounter with Jeremy and Elena; follows on from the end of episode 1 season 2 .


Into the Night

As soon as the glass hit the fireplace it shattered into a myriad of tiny pieces like his psyche. If he didn't know it before, he sure knew it now that emotion was eating him from the inside out.

He tried to internalize it, shut it down before it even started, but she'd split him so wide open he thought he'd never heal. But he only had himself to thank for filling that wound with salt.

He reached out for the decanter of 25-year old single malt that Stefan was saving for 'something special', and took a long greedy swig of it, reveling in the deep burn as the smoky amber liquid passed down his throat.

The shallow breathing, even the beads of sweat on his brow were easy to ignore, but his hands were shaking with an agitation that grew stronger by the second and refused to be comforted by treacherous liquor.

_I have to get out, kill something. Rip the head off a bear. Jesus, anything. _

_Breathing too fast, have to slow it down. _

_Just close my eyes for a moment… _

With an alacrity that even surprised even him - as soon as his eyes were shut she was there: horrified, accusatory… Repulsed.

_Why, Why? _

His eyes flew open, but it was too late - that image forever burned on his retinas. He repulsed her.

_Must get outside, must get air. Can't breathe._

Before the thought had even formulated, he was outside and deep into the forest that surrounded Mystic Falls.

This was his time, his _real_ home – the night. Not this world of daylight hours where nothing was hidden; constant exposure.

Here, cloaked in darkness _this_ was where he was supposed to exist.

He covered 8 miles before he even knew he was walking. He was too loud, too angry too agitated to hunt, but it didn't stop him crashing through the forest like a fire hungry for something to destroy.

He pressed on, testing his fortitude, his stamina, pushing all the gifts God (or something else) had given him: his night-sight, his amplified hearing, a myriad of tiny things that made him every bit a predator and anything but human. Because that's what he was, an animal. Wasn't he…

_Why? Why?_

A stumble. A tree trunk to fall against. The calloused bark pressing into his back.

Where are all the goddamn animals in this forest anyway?

"ARE YOU SCARED?" His yell reverberates around him, bouncing from tree to tree,

"YOU SHOULD BE!"

The laugh starts somewhere deep inside him, but he has no control over it. It racks through his body like a cancer, threatening to take him over, threatening to spill uncontrollably into something else. Something a lot like tears.

Then there it is – an incredible, unbelievable sight.

A rabbit.

Right there, right in front of him. Frozen to the spot but shaking uncontrollably; large dopey eyes staring right at him, paralyzed in the sights of this ruthless killer. The relentless thundering of its beating heart.

A downy, innocent rabbit.

The blood should be seeping down his throat right now, the mixture of instinct and predator inside him should have acted without thinking and this animal should be dead, consumed and discarded without a second thought. A kill like this is almost beneath him, this prey is unworthy.

But somehow this rabbit still breathes. With sudden common sense, it bounces away. Its fluffy white tail the final insult.

Here, dropping to the ground to rest in the mud and the leaves with tears staining his face – what is he?

What has he become? What has she made him?

A soldier does not give up, a soldier carries on. He didn't believe it then, and he doesn't believe it now. But he must make himself move - fight this feeling to never get up, to lie here until he desiccates and fades away into dust.

He must return home. He won't be seen like this, mud-stained and damaged. There are still some things about him which are pure 19th century, and his pride is one of them.

He has wandered far now, and for the first time in his entire life he does not know where he is. He must break the cover of the trees and find his bearings. He feels... lost.

Then there it is, like a white-gabled phoenix rising from the flames. As soon as he sees it, he knew that deep down this was where he was headed all along.

A vampire doesn't 'feel lost' – a vampire doesn't feel at all. And yet here he is, looking with horror at the one place he didn't want to be.

Her yard.

He turns away, every single muscle, every sinew burning with the urge to run, but he forces it down like bile and makes himself walk. He won't do it. He won't run. He won't listen either – he won't hear the tears… the gentle tears, now slightly muffled as her face is pulled into his brother's chest.

No – he won't listen. How can he hear this? He is 200 yards away!

He craves that time again when he was barely able to discern her voice from the general babble, but now her every sigh, every flick of her hair cuts through like glass. It is his curse – one of them anyway.

He turns his back on the house and stops to face the trees. Makes himself suffer it, makes himself feel inside the open wound and make it bleed.

_First a sigh. She opens her mouth and finds his lips, his hands become increasingly urgent; this a shared passion forged from relief and hurt and love all rolled into one. _

He closes his eyes as the torment continues; he can hear it all if he focuses. And all he can do is focus.

Come on, bring it on. Let's have it all.

_Hands exploring, legs intertwining, a once-favored necklace bounces lightly on the bed post. _

Her urgent breathing; his pointless ejaculation.

And then the worst of it, him gathering her up and pulling her into his arms to sleep.

_There now, I will comfort you with my body._

There, that is it. He is done. He can go home. The nervous energy is expelled and there is nothing left but tiredness. He must begin the long walk home.

He passes not through the forest this time, but along the road. He walks past the houses of her neighbors, asleep in their beds. He could massacre the lot before one even stirred from their slumber. But he would not, for what would be the point?

Into his bed he collapses, and for the first time in 150 years he lets filthy clothes ruin 600-count Egyptian cotton sheets.

He does not try to sleep, but stares at the ceiling until consciousness finally evades him.

He dreams of snapping the neck of her brother;

Again,

and again,

and again.

Into the night and through to the dawn her voice cries out…

_Why? Why?_


End file.
